


five times Killian visited Emma's new place, and one time he stayed

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Killian visited Emma's new place.  Post 4x04, exploration of Emma's new life and Killian's role in it.  Starting teen, eventually mature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the first

It’s no secret to anyone in Storybrooke (Killian included) that he would do anything that Emma asked of him (and that is why, he thinks bitterly, the Dark One implied that he was merely a lovesick puppy, trailing it’s owner throughout town). He may have been lovesick - there is no other explanation for his behavior this past year, both with and without Emma - but at the end of the day, he knows his own heart and his own intentions better than that crocodile. He wants to help Emma; he wants her to know that there are people that will be there for her, because much like her, he has spent days without a tether or an anchor, and if he can be that for her (if she wants him be that for her) - 

“What do you think?” she asks, and he looks away from the dingy tile that he’s been staring at, focuses back on her. She is waiting for his answer, eyes wide and expression earnest, and he stumbles to find something to say.

When Emma called him that morning, when she asked him to help with something, he didn’t expect it to be looking for new lodgings for herself and her lad. Killian tries not to think too hard about the implications (I have got to get my own place, she said when they kissed outside her parents’ door, her eyes closed and her fingers tracing his jaw, thumb against his pulse point) and to focus on some of the experience that three-hundred years of living have surely given him. He falls short, though, because he always had a place to stay, and if not a place than an inn nearby, a room let to him for a few piece of silver (or gold, if he wanted something nicer) and that is still the way of things. But he tries. 

“Do you really want to live here, Swan?” Killian asks with an arched eyebrow, because while he may not know anything about finding permanent lodgings, he can give advice on the place’s condition. And that condition is not fit for anyone, let alone Emma - the device that heats the room (the radiator, Emma tells him) makes odd noises every so often that cause Emma frown, the galley space is quiet small, and there are few windows. Killian is used to an open deck, space for him to breathe, and it feels as if this apartment will suffocate him (he cannot imagine what it will do to Emma). 

Emma takes another look around, and then sighs. “You’re right,” she admits. “I don’t.” And when she turns back towards him, crossing the space between them with a few steps, she reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently. “Come on, let’s return the key to the landlord and go to the next one.”

She does not let go of his hand as they depart; instead, she entwines her fingers with his, and his heart leaps then falls at the gesture. It is unexpected, that she would touch him so frequently, and which such intent, and he does not know what to do. It is a mere day after their date, and his disastrous attempt at trying to be whole for her. She does not know the deal he made, or the actions he took against that (presumably innocent) man, and he does not know how to tell her. He does not like keeping things secret from her, but she is so focused, so utterly intent on this quest to find a new place that he cannot tell her, not today. 

They visit two more locations, and each comes with a new gesture of affection: her hand on his arm when he points out that this one does have a lovely view of the next door neighbor’s bathroom window, a playful tug on his charms when he comments about the size of the bedrooms at the next location. His body betrays him with each action, leaning into her touch despite his despicable deeds, fingers brushing against her hand as she reaches for him. This new intimacy is staggering to him (it has been so long since someone touched him willingly, or allowed him to touch them in such a way, delicately and with care) and with each moment he falls deeper in love with her, and deeper into his own fears about his foolishness. He will have to tell her, he knows that much, but the words will not come to his mind, and so he banters, insinuates, praises and admires in the meantime. 

The last potential home is near the water, and when he smells the crisp sea breeze, it eases some of the turmoil in his soul. There are a small string of cottages not far from the pier, and Emma leads him to the last one in the row, painted a light blue. She opens the door with the key given to them by the property owner (surprisingly not the Dark One, but rather a captain of a small fishing ship looking to make some extra income). They step into a bright room, and Killian lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He hears Emma gasps, and knows that this might be the place. 

There is a hallway that leads through the small house, but there are wide windows and high ceilings, and while this is not her parents’ home, it is large enough for her and her boy. They weave in and out of the rooms, and for the first time Killian is pleased at the conditions - this home has been well cared for, and it will make a fitting home. 

He tells her as much, and her smile brightens his spirits when she nods, agreeing with him. 

“Henry found this,” Emma says, “right after the curse broke. He suggested living by the water.”

“Smart boy,” Killian tells her, and Emma smiles, drawing closer. She wraps her arms around his waist and looks up at him, smile wide and happy. “Thanks for all your help,” she says, angling her face upwards to kiss him, and he cannot turn down the invitation. 

The kiss is soft and easy, and he enjoys the way that she fits into him, the way that she curls her body into his own,hands against his back, lips moving against his. His hook rests on her hip, his hand cups her jaw, and he tries not to think about having two hands to hold her (it will haunt him forever, he knows this was an acuteness that hurts) and focuses on her, the way that she gasps a little when he pulls her closer to him, the way that she moves her hand into his hair (he likes that, just as much as he likes her). This is enough, this can be enough - 

It is enough, and it will be enough, and he hates that he thought that he could never been enough for her, not when it is clear that she doesn’t mind the hook, when she breaks the kiss and smiles at him with a lazy, kiss-drunk smile, not when she wraps her arm around his back and leads him out of the space, her head resting against his shoulder. It is enough when she takes him back to Granny’s for a celebratory lunch, sitting next to him in the booth instead of across from him, hip against hip, stealing his french fries and signaling to all the world that they are here, together, and she does not care. 

He wishes he could be the person she thinks he is, who doesn’t make bargains when demons and doesn’t trap himself into deals that cannot be undone, but he’s still a pirate and always will be, and that’s the problem. Every time he tries to be selfless, he ends up being selfish instead, and there’s a bitterness that lingers in his mouth at that thought, even as Emma talks to him about what furniture she’ll need and what color she’ll paint the bedrooms.

Killian takes a sip of his water, focuses his attention on Emma once more. Today is not the day for his own melancholy. Today is about her, and her new life, the one that she is welcoming him into with open arms. 

He will tell her about his mistake tomorrow.


	2. the second

The walk to the small cottage is surprisingly fast, despite the bitter chill of the wind tonight. He turns up the collar of his new coat, almost wishing for the heaviness and length of his old one - which he still has in his room at Granny’s - but that coat belongs to a different person (or so he’d like to believe). The person he is now - the person who loves Emma, the person who lives in Storybook, the person that the heroes trust - that person wears the clothing of this realm. 

The path to Emma’s new home is illuminated by a small light right outside the door. Killian knocks three times, then takes a step back, a smile already forming at the corner of his lips while he waits. When Emma opens the door, it grows, and she answer it with her own (it’s so easy to make her smile these days). 

“Come on in,” she says, opening the door wider, and he steps inside. This is the first time that he’s been to her house since she moved in a few days ago, and already it looks more like a home than it did when they first laid eyes on it. 

The ice wall has kept everyone in Storybrooke, which means that Emma can’t retrieve any of her belongings from New York, so they have spent time finding furniture from the shops around town. It’s a patchwork configuration - a used table and chairs from a second hand shop, new mattresses from Storybrooke’s small department store, odds and ends accumulated around skirmishes with the Snow Queen and searching for Elsa’s missing sister. Emma had been adamant about making the place into a home as soon as possible, going so far as to extract a concession from the landlord that she could paint the rooms before moving in (they spent a night here, her entire family save her mother and younger brother, painting the walls green and blue and grey, Killian helping as best he could, painting the trim along the ceiling). 

It is a beautiful place, and Killian is glad that Emma has it. 

She closes the door and moves past him, her hand caressing his arm as she does so (he never thought she would be like this, so open with her touches when it came to him, and there is a thrill that passes through him with each contact). 

Emma smiles over her shoulder as she leads him down the hallway towards the small living space they set up just the other day. He remembers helping her father maneuver the kitchen table beneath the large overhead light - not to mention the way that, once her father and son were outside, she slide into his space with the easy way that she does lately, as if it’s all that she’s ever done, pressing a brief kiss to his lips that promised more (and he knows there will be more, that this is just a preamble to other things, this place of her own). 

“Beer?” she asks, darting into the kitchen as he takes off his jacket, drapes it over one of the chairs. He takes a look around, noticing the framed pictures of her and her boy prominently displayed on a bookshelf.

“Thanks,” he responds, because he is always a gentleman, and then adds, “and where is Henry tonight?”

He hears the door to the refrigerator slam (smart invention, that one) and a few metallic clicks, then Emma returns, handing him a glass bottle. 

“He is at dinner with his grandparents,” she says, but there’s a slight edge to her voice that he recognizes as only being there when she is carefully leaving out details. 

“Isn’t that a normal occurrence?” he asks, and Emma gives him a look before taking a sip of her beer.

“He’s with Belle and Gold,” she says finally, and there’s an apprehensiveness in her voice that makes Killian wonder just when this development started. His curiosity must show on his face, because Emma merely sighs and adds, “he’s apparently decided he wants to learn more about Neal, so he’s been working at the pawn shop after school and Belle invited him over for dinner tonight.”

There is a moment, when Emma tells him this, that Killian worries for himself - a selfish moment, one that he recognizes immediately as selfish, but which chills him to the bone nonetheless. He still hasn’t told her about the Dark One and his bargain, not because he wants to keep it a secret - he’s learned that’s not the way go, not where Emma is concerned - but because he’s worried that it will take some of the happiness away from her and he cannot, will not, do that, not when she’s so happy, not when she’s so light (not when he might be the cause).

(He’ll tell her soon enough.)

“So what’s the plan for this evening, then, Swan?” he asks, for if Henry will be home later then there is still precious time to be spent together, and he is eager for it (he is eager for her, for her kisses and her touches and her body against his). Emma smiles, and as she does so, there is a knock at the door,

It appears she has ordered food (and not from Granny’s) delivered hot and fresh to her door (will the wonders of this realm never cease?). Emma brings it into the small living space, places it on a low table before taking a seat on the sofa. Beside it rests what he recognizes as a computer, something that Emma has used to retrieve information. There is some fiddling with her phone next to the computer, and while she does so, she instructs him to help himself to the food.

“Pizza,” she says, when she finally finishes setting up, “and beer. Movie night staples.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Killian asks as he sits down. “A movie night.”

“Hey, you said you’d be okay with watching Netflix,” Emma points out, and while he does remember the conversation (he’s more lost in remembering her kiss, the way that she told him to be patient, and how patient’s he’s been since then and how amply he’s been rewarded in kind) he hasn’t thought of it much since the Snow Queen (or Ice Queen, whatever that frigid bitch is called) came to town.

He knows Emma is winding herself into knots at the thought that she doesn’t remember that woman’s presence in her life - he can see the weight of it on her shoulders each day as they search to find her with no avail. It bothers Emma, this obvious gap, and he cannot blame her for being worried; with each passing day it is quite clear how powerful his love truly is, and the fact that the Snow Queen could have been using Emma’s magic for evil upset them all. 

“So initiate me into this tradition, then,” he tells her with a smile, and Emma leans forward and brushes her lips against his, softly, promising more to come (later, hopefully). She gets them both food, then turns on her computer. Soon, there is something on the screen - he’s seen this, at Granny’s, on her antiquated devices, but this is different. This is sharper, and brighter, and the sound is clearer.

“This is a classic,” Emma tells him, settling back, arm brushing his. “It’s about a kid who gets left home alone and he has to defend his house against burglars.”

“Are you sure you want to watch a movie about thieves, love?” Killian asks, considering they’ve yet to find the errant Will Scarlet. Emma nods.

“Thieves I can handle, especially when there’s nowhere to go.” She takes a bite of her food (pizza, he’s had this before with Henry). “When this movie came out, one of the foster homes I was in had a bootleg copy.”

“Bootleg?” Killian frowns, and Emma laugh. 

“Yeah, it means illegal. Basically someone went into the movie theater, recorded it on a camera, and sold it out of the truck of their car. Horrible quality, but we wore that tape out watching this movie.” She smiles. “One of the better memories I have of the system.”

On impulse, Killian leans forward, presses a kiss to her cheek (she likes that, he knows, watching the faint blush and the fluttering of her eyelashes) before settling back in to eat his food. 

He can’t help but smile - he’s been doing it a lot these days, whenever he’s around her and sometimes when he’s not - and there’s something about this, being with her…it feels right. It feels like they’ve been doing this all along, this intimacy, even if it’s only recently that she begun to thread her fingers through his, thumb rubbing against his knuckles, or he’s begun to kiss her on the cheek when they part. He is always in a state of awe these days, grateful at the way that she as accepted him so readily into her life, happy with how easy her affections have become. 

Throughout the movie, Emma tells him things - little things, about the foster home she was in at the time, the other kids there, their plans to protect their meager belongs in case of theft (even though the threat was more likely to come from other kids rather than bungling thieves). He listens to everything she says with rapt attention, because things click into place the more she talks - the mistrust, the distrust, the hesitancy to let others in. He knew he recognized those features in her long ago but hearing how they were shaped, learning about her…it’s different, now, when she opens up, and he can see more of himself in her with each growing day. 

Eventually, once they finish their food, Emma shifts, grabbing a small (new) pillow from the corner of the (old) sofa and placing it on his lap. She lays herself down, resting her head on the pillow, wrapping his arm around her. 

“Comfortable?” he asks, amused by her behavior.

“Very,” she responds. “Now shut up and watch the movie.”

It surprises him that, just as affectionate as Emma has become, he has become as well. Even with Milah he was never like this - exchanging touches and little hugs, meaningful glances and tender kisses. He hasn’t had this ever, not in this form, and it is staggering to think that he could have this now, after all that has happened. 

It’s not only that, though. He is someone else with her - softer, gentler - and it’s someone he never thought he could be. Sure, he is still fiercely protective of those he loves (for he loves her, Emma Swan, stubbornness and all) but this is different. She has changed him, made him realize there’s more to life than revenge or hatred or greed; she’s made him remember what is is like to be honorable, and to have a purpose, and that is a gift he is never sure he will be able to repay.

Perhaps he really has changed. 

Eventually, Killian realizes that they are alone and he wonders if perhaps the movie is a pretense - he knows that she invited him here, he knows that her son is out, but he also knows her goodbye kisses have grown more fervent and so he wonders - 

A soft snore comes from the golden head in his lap, and he can’t help but smile. 

Emma has been wearing herself out (yet another thing he knows) and it comes as absolutely no surprise that she has fallen asleep in his lap. However, he does remembers the woman he met in the Enchanted Forest, and it is no small testament to how far they’ve come that now she could trust him so much to let her guard down around him in such a way. He slides his hand out of hers, runs his fingers softly through her hair, brushing it away from her face. 

Perhaps they both have changed. 

It’s at that moment that there is a noise at the front door and soon the sound of Henry’s voice yelling, “Mom!” rings through the small space, followed by the slamming of the door. It surprises Emma, who wakes up suddenly, blinking as her son bounds into the room. He seems to take no notice of Killian other than a casual hello, instead comments on the movie they’re watching and the pizza they’re eating. Emma sits up, wipes her mouth as she looks from Henry to Killian and back, and blinks again. 

“How long was I out?” she asks, and Killian shrugs. Henry is talking a mile a minute about dinner with the Golds, and eventually Emma holds up her hand. 

“Let me say goodbye to Killian, and you can tell me all about it,” she says, throwing an apologetic glance Killian’s way.

She’ll apologize more later at her front door, murmuring things about quality time and first time alone in forever between kisses and he just shakes his head. 

“It’s not like any of us are going anywhere,” he tells her, and then adds, with a wink, “I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me on our next date.”

Her answering grin (and the kiss that follows) stays in his mind as he walks home, collar unturned once more against the wind. As he walks down the street, he swears he sees Gold’s car, long and sleek and silent, but he might just be a trick of his mind, the guilt at not telling Emma returning. 

He could not tell her. She was tired, and she needed the rest. 

He will tell her about his mistake tomorrow.


	3. the third

3.  
  
He will never get over the way that Emma kisses - with her whole heart and soul, with everything she has (he can feel it the way her lips move against his, with care, with intent).  It is very different from how Emma approaches life (tentative, guarded, ready to flee at a moment’s notice) but, somewhat surprisingly, her kisses seem to be how Emma approaches whatever it is that exists between them.  
  
Her hand twists in his hair and his fingers flex against her hip, pulling her closer towards him, pressing their bodies closer together.  His heart hammers in his chest, his blood sings in his veins, and he cannot think of anything but the touch and taste and feel of her in his arms.  
  
Killian did not intend to spent tonight on Emma’s couch, wrapped up in her, but he does not have a problem the change in plans.  
  
She has been tense and agitated since learning that the Snow Queen has plans for her -  frustrated and distracted and working herself to the bone at the sheriff’s station looking for clues.   He has been there, helping as much as he could (which is not much, considering he does not possess magic and cannot protect her from than he already does) and she has appreciated it, rewarding his dedication with stolen kisses in the hallway or gentle touches when other are around (and, since he’s a pirate, he hordes what he can get, each moment more precious than all of the gold in all of the realms).  
  
Tonight, though - this is different, the way that she rocks her hips into his (she must feel how much he wants her, she has to know) and the way she deepens the kiss, body pressed against his own (he has no idea where he ends and she begins, they are so entwined).     
  
Tonight, he had only meant to walk her home, to keep her safe.  
  
And then she invited him in.  
  
She stops kissing him, leaning back, and the loss of her warmth is like a shock to his system.  He opens his eyes, catches her smiling down at him with kiss-bruised lips.  She brushes her hair out of her face, eyes blown wide and so very green.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” she says softly, voice hoarse and it does things to him, makes him shiver to hear the need in it, and she’s sliding off his lap and heading across the room to her bedroom.  He hears the door of her small washroom close, and he exhales, feeling the tension that is coiling deep in his belly grow.  
  
They have stolen moments - kisses, touches, he even copped a feel during a hug once, and she didn’t seem to mind at all - but Killian wants more, and so, he thinks, does Emma.  It doesn’t help that there’s a crazy witch in town hellbent on creating a perfect magic family with Emma and Elsa, or that there is always a demand on her time, from her parents or a townsperson or someone else who needs the Savior or the Sheriff (how can one woman be so much to so many people?)    
  
He closes his eyes, rubs them with his fingertips.  He is tired, and there is need coursing through even the marrow of his bones, he wants her so badly, wants all of her - wants her just to himself, if only for a night (wants every cry and whimper, wants every smile and sigh, wants the woman he loves just for himself).  
  
The pirate in him would claim that time with Emma; the new man - the honorable man - will wait for her to give the word (and considering he has yet to tell her of his hand, and his deal with Gold…it would be better to wait).  
  
“Killian!” he hears Emma call out, catching his immediate attention.  “Can you come in here?” He hears movement, and the creak of the door, and he stands, hoping that everything is all right.    
  
  He travels on bare feet across the (cold) wood floor and as he nears the doorway, he calls out, “What do you need - “  
  
And then he stops.  
  
And stares.  
  
Because as it turns out, there is absolutely nothing wrong, and absolutely everything right.  
  
“Close the door,” Emma says softly, playing with the ties of the short black silk robe she wears, and Killian can’t help but follow her directions.  It clicks shut behind him, and he turns the lock for good measure before cocking an eyebrow.  
  
“Clearly you’re in need to my assistance,” he tells her, hand and hook spread in supplication,  watching as Emma rolls her eyes and smirks at him, but it lacks any of the venom of their earlier encounters.  Rather, there is a heat in her gaze, a flush on her cheeks when he’s close enough to run his fingers over the silken tie, noting the way that her blush continues down her neck to where the robe covers her (he cannot wait to see how far it goes).  
  
“Your assistance would be appreciated,” she practically purrs, draping her arms around his shoulders and closing the distance between them. He can’t help himself - he slides his hand around to her back, stroking the soft fabric lightly, enjoying the slight intake of breath when his fingers drift downwards.  
  
“Did you plan this?” he asks, because he’s curious (and because he wants to hear it, wants her to say how badly she wants him, wants to remember this moment forever).   Emma cocks her head to the left, her breath hot against his neck, the warmth of her body radiating out from beneath the cool silk.  
  
“More like seizing the moment,” Emma says, and then her lips slide over his again, hot and desperate and he is ready, so very ready for this, for her.  The slickness of her mouth and the smoothness of the silk drive him wild as she presses herself into him, hands moving desperately from his shoulders to his vest, working at the buttons, and he lets go of her to help, wanting to be free of his clothing as quickly as possible.  
  
The vest is easy, but the shirt takes some work as Emma’s hands pull it from his pants, fingers spanning across his stomach, and just the touch of her is a new level of intimacy for them (and he cannot wait to do the same, to take feel her skin beneath his palm).  He breaks the kiss, stepping back to help the buttons of his shirt, and without saying anything, Emma helps him push it off his shoulders, gently working it around his hook before grabbing him by his charms and pulling him back for another bruising kiss.  
  
There is a moment, between the time his lips meet hers and her legs meet the back of the bed, when Killian considers taking things hard and fast, pushing them both to their limits, seeing just how far they can do.  
  
(He doesn’t.)  
  
(If this is the only stolen moment they get between ice monsters and delusional snow queens, then he is going to savor over bit of it.)  
  
With little effort, he pushes Emma back onto the mattress and she goes easily, leaning back, hair spread out like a golden halo around her head.  Her fingers move towards the tie of the robe, but he shakes his head (he is going to be the one to unwrap this present, not her).    
  
He reaches forward with his hook, tracing the edge of the robe lightly, watching Emma gasp at the sensation of cool metal on her overheated skin.  Her eyes flick upwards, meeting his, and he smiles down at her.  
  
And then he gets to work.  
  
His fingers quickly take care of the tie while his mouth finds the places on her neck that make her moan and arch against him, hands on his shoulder, fingernails digging in.  When he uses his hook to push away either side of the robe, he can’t help but grin: that blush does go all the way down.  
  
“You’re a bloody marvel, Emma,” he tells her, and she smiles back up at him.    
  
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says, slightly breathless, before her fingers are in his hair and she is pulling him back down.  
  
Emma, as it turns out, is incredibly responsive to his touch (the rasp of his beard against the skin between her breasts, the feeling of his fingers against her skin, the way that her body arches and she moans, groans, whimper and whispers don’t stop Killian don’t stop) as he makes his way down her body.  
  
And then her phone rings.  Or vibrates, or whatever it does when someone sends her a written message.  
  
She groans, this time not in pleasure, one hand leaving his hair to reach towards her bedside table where her phone rests.  Killian places his head on her stomach, taking a moment to close his eyes (and to undo his belt, and relieve some of the growing tension inside himself, which spirals upwards with every sound Emma makes).    
  
“Something the matter, love?” he asks as she throws the phone back towards the table (it misses, crashing onto the ground but Emma doesn’t seem to care as she closes her eyes, head on the pillow).  
  
“Mary Margaret - probably sending me another picture of my baby brother,” she tells him.  Her eyes snap open, green eyes blazing, and she arches an eyebrow.  
  
Her meaning is clear: she needs a distraction, and badly too.  And Killian is more than willing to accommodate someone as lovely as Emma, someone he cares so much for and who deserves more than to be at everyone’s beckon call.  
  
He returns to work, mouth blazing a trail further south, and Emma’s moans become breathier, her whimpers higher, when his head dips between her thighs.  
  
And just as soon as he can begin, there is a pounding the door, a frantic ringing of the bell and Emma jumps off the bed, leaving him there as she quickly reties her robe, running her fingers through her hair, murmuring something about murder as she charges towards the door.    
  
“Stay here,” she tells him, and he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to (his ardor is not dampened by the sudden interruption, not now that he’s tasted and touched her, felt her hands on his own body - not when he knows that with the sheer force of her anger she could dispatch any of the dwarves or the Evil Queen for interrupting this moment).  
  
It is the sound of her mother’s panicked voice, her father’s frustrated words, that cools his blood.  He listens to the conversation as best he can from behind the closed door, standing and slowly redressing (something about Belle and runes?).  His shirt is completely buttoned before Emma slips back into the room and into his arms, resting her forehead against his shoulder.  
  
He can feel the frustrating vibrating through her, evident in the way that she grips his shirt and presses herself into him - and even more evident when the water glass on the dresser starts to bubble frantically (an outward manifestation of her inward turmoil, and one that Killian is not at all surprised to see).    
  
“Quite a parlor trick,” he says softly, and Emma looks up, confused, frowning, until she glances over at the water, and the bubbles fade rapidly, the water becoming calm once more.  There’s a crease in her forehead that is all too familiar to him as she stares at the glass, and he strokes her back carefully, cautiously, unsure of what to say, only wanting to soothe her.  
  
“For what it’s worth, Swan, I appreciated your initiative,” he finally says, and Emma laughs a little, some of the tension within her dissipating.  She turns her head, presses a final kiss to his lips, and sighs.  
  
“David and Mary Margaret say that Belle has a breakthrough where the Snow Queen is concerned, and they wanted to let me know right away.   They’re outside in the living room.”  She sighs, heading towards her dresser.  
  
“Should I stay here, then?” Killian asks, feeling something prick at the skin at the base of his neck (shame? Embarrassment? He does not know what to do, has lost his usual swagger).  
  
“No,” Emma says.  “I don’t care if they know that you’re here, or that we were…” she gestures between the two of them, and he smiles and shakes his head.  “I’m a grown woman, not a little girl, and sometimes I just want to be with my boyfriend.”  
  
“Boyfriend, eh?” he asks, grabbing his vest and buttoning it up slowly.  He expects Emma to roll her eyes and shake her head, but instead she merely shrugs, and says nothing more, grabbing a pair of jeans out of her dresser and heading towards the bathroom.  
  
Killian finishes dressing, and prepares to head out to meet parental judgement (and if they are surprised to see him here, and Emma answering the door in nothing but a robe, they say nothing about it).  
  
…  
  
Two days later, Emma blows a hole in the sheriff’s department then flees, terrified and alone and afraid.  
  
He drinks with David that night, both of them worried and anxious as to where Emma could be.  
  
When she returns, she only talks about her magic, and getting rid of it for good.  
  
Suddenly, his mistake does not seem so urgent.  
  



	4. the fourth

   
  
He sips the coffee that Emma has made him slowly, savoring the taste.  There are many delicacies in this realm that, as Killian is coming to find out, are not delicacies at all.  Things that were rare in the Enchanted Forest are readily available, and inexpensive.   Coffee, for example, and chocolate - both of which cost a pretty penny, neither of which he tasted until he became a pirate captain -  are so common that they are found in nearly every home.  
  
(Sometimes the differences between them threaten to overpower the similarities.)  
  
 Beside him, Emma reaches for her own mug, her arm brushing against his own and sending jolts of longing through him that are, surprisingly, not at all lessened without his heart racing at her touch.  
  
It is strange, being without a heart.  He is so used to it’s steady, constant beating that when there is nothing - no rhythmic thumping in his chest, no subtle reminder of his own mortality…that is when he realizes his foolishness.   He is now a pawn, his very future in Gold’s hands, all because he wanted to be a better man (to think that his own selfishness may hurt the woman he loves is too much).  
  
Emma shifts, sits back next to him, shoulder touching his own.  She replies to something David says but Killian does not hear it, distracted by her presence.  His guilt weighs him down, makes him uncomfortable in her proximity; the feel of her close to him distracts him (he remembers her eager kisses, the touch of his lips against her skin, remembers the feel of her beneath the palm of his hand and he shudders when he thinks about how much he has lost).  
  
Emma glances over at him, smiles at him, presses closer to him, body warm despite the chill in the air that penetrates the small town, seeping through the walls and sinking into his bones.  He smiles back, because he means it, because it makes him smile to know that she cares for him, even if it is misplaced and he is nothing more than a scoundrel and a pirate, always looking for the better offer and the higher bidder, always pursuing what isn’t his.  
  
The beauty of being part of this crew is that no one asks Killian for advice and he must only provide it when he feels it necessary.  The prince and princess already have ideas, the Evil Queen (who sits, perched on the edge of a chair across the room, frowning at her own drink) constantly offers opinions, and no one cares if he is quiet, his attention drawn inward.    
  
And that is when Killian feels it - the tug and pull, deep within his chest -  immediately knows what it is: Gold, calling him to do his bidding.  He takes a breath, tries to resist, but then he can feel a tightness in his chest where his heart should be (he can see it in his head, Gold’s fist closing around his heart, and he flinches).     
  
He finishes his coffee and stands, taking into the kitchen and resting it in the sink.  He pauses for a moment, hand fisted against the counter, collecting himself.  He will need to leave, he will need to come up with an excuse (in his head, he hears Gold’s voice telling him what to do, offering suggestions for what to say, but he keeps his mouth shut, keeps his lips sealed).  
  
If he leaves Emma tonight, it will be on his terms, not those of that crocodile.  
  
“Killian.”    
  
He takes a deep breath before looking up, catching the concern in her eyes (he looks away, Gold’s words ringing in his mind, his own emotions swirling in the empty space that should have held his heart).    He feels her hand on his arm, and he looks up again.  
  
“Is something wrong?” she asks (her hand burns him through his leather jacket).   There is worry on her brow and he hates that he is the cause of it, hates that his own impetuous need to feel whole, to hold her as a whole man, has led them here.  
  
“Just…a bit under the weather, love” he tells her.  “I think I might go,” he adds, taking a step back, watching her hand fall to the side, her frown growing.  “Call me if there is a problem?”  He lets that linger in the air between them, a promise to return for aid (a promise he cannot fulfill, he knows, as the Crocodile closes his fist around his heart once more).  
  
He turns away before she can see him flinch in pain (she cannot know, this is not important, she cannot worry about him when there are rumors of a dark curse).  
  
He heads towards the door, brushing past her, eager to get away because every moment here is a struggle within himself, every moment he is tempted to tell her, to let Gold crush his heart as he admits the truth of what will happen if they keep looking towards the Snow Queen and not at their real enemy.  He tries not to think about what will happen when he dies, when Emma is left alone again (she has her parents, he tries to remind himself, she has her family).  
  
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she says, following close behind him.     
  
Gold is angry, he knows that much, can feel it in the throb of his heart, in the whispered words that creep into his mind, creep into the space where his heart should be.   He stops at the door to collect his jacket, and before he realizes it, her hands are on him, fingers sliding along his vest and under his coat, her touch sending flames of need flickering along his skin, through his body.  
  
“Sorry you’re feeling sick,” she tells him, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes when she leans forward, wrapping her hands around his back and leaning into him.    
  
“I’m sure I’ll recover,” he says, hearing how tight his voice is (how great the need is within him).   But Emma doesn’t seem to hear him, because her lips are slanting over his and his entire body is alive in a way he didn’t think possible, not without his heart.  
  
It is strange to kiss her without his heart (despite the physical reaction to her, it is as if only part of him is there) but he kisses her anyway, fingers in her hair and mouth hot against hers, nipping against her bottom lip, feeling the way that she melts into him with every passing moment.  He can still feel her but he cannot, and the strangeness that divide makes his kisses more fierce, makes him more desperate to feel all of her like he did.    
  
It is Emma who breaks the kiss and looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a wry smile, and he can’t help but tease her.  “Looking to get sick, Swan?” he asks, fingers sliding against her jaw, thumb running over the indent in her chin.  
  
“If it means being able to stay in bed with you and not have to go chase after some creepy Snow Queen…” she says, pressing one final kiss against his lips, “I’ll take my chances.”    
  
In the space between them, there is nothing but silence as he stares at her, full of love even without his heart.  Every moment between them is more than he could have ever dreamed of, and he would tell her everything (if only he could) because that is what she deserves - honesty, integrity, commitment.   But he does not, only watches her smile grow as she looks at him in return.    
  
Somewhere in the distance, someone calls for her, one then twice, and finally the moment is shattered.  He steps back, hand on the doorknob, and Emma steps back towards the kitchen.  
  
“See you tomorrow?” she asks coyly, and he nods.    
  
“Tomorrow,” he agrees, and then he heads out into the cold, the pull of the Crocodile growing stronger.  
  
Not tomorrow, the imp teases, his words echoing in Killian’s mind.  Remember, pirate, you are my puppet.  
  
“As if I could forget,” Killian replies to no one, his words lost in the fierce winter wind. 


	5. the fifth

All around him the townspeople of Storybrooke tear themselves apart (the dwarves especially seem to harbor pent-up feelings of hostility towards each other, and he doesn’t really want to know what that one did to Granny to have her chase him with a crossbow) but Killian keeps moving steadily past them, his destination set.  His boots crunch over abandoned shards of glass, remnants of the spell that has the town in it’s clutches.  
  
He still aches from the falling so hard, so heavily - so easily tricked by a young lad and his marbles.  He had expected that Henry at his worst would not wish to go with him, would fight back with cruel words (he is his father’s son, after all) but there’s a part of him that also aches at the thought that even though he and Emma are (were?) together, that in his heart the lad might reject him, reject the relationship.  Killian shakes his head, wishing the thought to vanish into the bitter winter air but it clings to the back of his mind like barnacles to the hull of a ship. It will take some heavy labor to remove it.  
  
Good thing that he’s not due much longer for this world, right?  
  
He does not understand all that holding one’s heart can do, but since his steps are relatively unencumbered he can assume that the Crocodile is distracted by something else, or does not closely track his movements.  Perhaps the man merely assumes that Killian is chasing after his grandson, and that perhaps the boy would flee to one of his homes.  He’s not sure how this dark magic works, so he keeps his thoughts centered on Henry, keeps thinking that perhaps he is hiding at Emma’s new home, even if he doubts that to be the case.  
  
He needs to get there.  He needs to do it (a man who does not fight for what he wants deserves what he gets, after all).  
  
When he spots the small cottage, he breathes a sigh of relief, though his soul and the space where his heart should be are quickly filled with dread at his next action but he cannot - will not - give up now.  
  
Emma had given him a key a few days ago, the smile on her face lingering as she placed it in his hand and promised that he could come over whenever, for whatever and her meaning was not difficult to grasp (her mouth on his, the press of her body against his own) though that had yet to come to pass.  The Dark One took his heart and the Snow Queen cast her spell before they could carve out a moment of time together. Killian knows it will always be like this - constantly running from one thing to the next, kisses and moments stolen in between, but if he meant being with her -  
  
No.  He cannot think like that.  If he thinks like that, then he is already dead.  
  
He slips the key into the lock and enters the cold, dark house.  
  
“Henry?” he calls out, always mindful of his master (he has never hated the Crocodile as much as he does now, making him his pawn, sending him to kidnap his - and Milah’s - grandson).  He waits in the hallway, closing the door softly behind him, counts to ten.  There is no sound of movement - there is no one here, and he is alone.  
  
He flips the lock on the door and then sets about his business.  
  
There is something intrusive about his actions that bother Killian, but he needs to do this - needs Emma to know, needs Emma to not come find him.  The Dark One is more powerful than she is, and he will not have her risk her life just to save him (his life is not worth as much as hers, in the end, even if he is the only one to realize that).  He needs her to live to save this town another day.  
  
But more than that, he needs her to know how much he loves her.   The Dark One told him that  he cannot tell Emma what has happened to him, cannot tell her about his heart being gone; that doesn’t mean he can’t tell her how he feels, and how sorry he is that this has happened.  
  
And of course, finding the means to tell that to her is more than slightly impossible when he can’t find a single piece of paper or a bloody pen in her house.  
  
He scours the home, growing more frantic with each passing minute, uncertain if the Crocodile will call him back, will make him return without completing this final task.  Finally, he finds a piece of paper with a blank side, and a pencil that the lad must use for his schoolwork.  He takes it to the kitchen table, and pulls up a chair and yet, the minute he sits down, he cannot find the words to say exactly what he wants.  
  
Words rarely fail Killian; with all of his reading, with all of his experience, he always knows what to say when he needs to say it.  But now - faced with telling the woman he loves, the woman he gave up his ship for, the woman he tried (and failed) to be a better man for - now he cannot summon up the words to express any of this.    
  
He can see tendrils of dawn creeping into the sky and he knows that he will have to return soon to the pawn shop, to where the Dark One waits for him.   He must do this now, or not do it at all.  
  
And so he thinks about Emma, about the first time he saw her, golden and perfect in the sun.   He thinks about her tenacity and her stubbornness, the way that she abandoned him because she was unwilling to take a chance.  He thinks about her dedication - to her son, to her parents, to her role as Savior.  He thinks about her fierceness and her fear, and about the way that she has learned to drop her guard around him.  He thinks about the softness that lingers in her smile when she’s with her family (when she’s with him) and the coy flirtatiousness that finds it’s way there when it’s only them.    
  
Above all else, he thinks about how it was worth it, to give up his ship and bring her home - how even the moments with her were far better than the moments without have been, and how that will have to be enough for him now.   At least Killian knows he can be - maybe not a better, but at least a good enough - if he has proper inspiration, the right influence.  
  
He picks up his pen, and writes.   And what is writes is everything that she means to him: sun and moon and North Star, light in the darkness and the path homewards (he wanted a home with her, wanted to be with her forever, but that is not in the cards and he’s usually the one to stack the deck).  She is everything to him, and she needs to know it - needs to know how much she means, how wonderful she truly is, even if she doesn’t believe it herself.  You are worth risking everything for, he writes, and I hope you remember that, always and forever.  
  
He cannot tell her about his fate, but he makes it obvious that he loves her, and he will always love her, and that he hopes she will remember him fondly (though she has every right to be angry with him for leaving her because it’s his own fault, this predicament he’s in).    
  
He signs his name with a flourish, then makes sure that her name, which he has written large across the top, is what she sees, tracing the letters in lead, reverently and delicately (he does not say her name lest the Crocodile find out and tell him to destroy the letter).  When he finishes, he places it on the countertop, near the machine that makes the coffee she loves so dearly.  Perhaps, when this is over and she returns home, she will see it, and remember him, and the time they shared, and her offer to come into her parents’ home for coffee after their first (only) date.  
  
Even without a heart, Killian’s chest throbs at that thought.  
  
He lets himself out, locking the door behind him, watching as the sky slowly changes colors, purple to pink to blue as he walks to the pawn shop, hands in his pockets, body weary from the constantly feeling that he is fighting with himself (though he has done what he needed to do - one last gasp, one last effort).     
  
Halfway between his destination and Emma’s home, the town changes: snow begins to fall, small flakes and then larger ones, and the fighting that was rampant throughout the streets slow down than stops entirely.  Dwarves hug their brothers, Granny makes up with her customers, and Killian ducks down the back alley, wanting to be seen by no one.    
  
He leans against the wall and takes a moment (the pull of the Dark One now thrumming through his veins - he wants to know where his pawn is, it seems) and in that moment, he smiles.  Whatever has happened, it appears that the Snow Queen has been defeated, which means that Emma won, and he is so proud of her - his brilliant, beautiful love.  He is so proud of her, and even though he never will be able to tell her of his joy that she succeeded, he can be in awe of her one last time.  
  



	6. and one

He wakes with a start, clutching his chest, utterly terrified that, when he expects nothing, there’s the swift steady beating of his heart that echoes loudly in his ears instead.   He closes his eyes, rests his head back against the pillow, tries to remember -   
  
The Dark One.  The hat.  The dagger.  A curse.  Emma, wide-eyed and frightened.   Belle, and the Dark One.   Emma shoving his heart back into his chest.  Emma telling him to meet her at home -   
  
Killian’s eyes snap open to find that he’s in Emma’s bedroom (he recognizes that ceiling fan, remembers glaring at it in frustration a few days ago when Emma’s parents unceremoniously arrived to interrupt them) and he shifts.  His hand brushes against the cool fabric of Emma’s quilt as he turns over to the side, places his feet on the ground.  His heart pounds loudly in his chest and he closes his eyes, tries to collect himself because he doesn’t remember the walk here, just remembers the utter exhaustion that seemed to flood through his bones the minute his heart was returned to him.   When was the last time he had slept? Did the Crocodile keep him awake for days on end to do his bidding? That would hardly surprise him.     
  
He sighs, rolling his neck from one side to the other, feeling the tension drain from his body.  How long has he been asleep? Where is Emma -   
  
There is the sound of movement, and then “Hey - you’re awake!”  
  
Emma is in the doorway, mug of coffee in her hands and all that Killian can think is did she read he letter?  She leans against the doorframe, smiling at him, and his heart leaps and pounds against his ribs, so grateful to see her again, so eager to be back in it’s rightful place.  
  
“How long was I asleep?” he asks, making to stand up but Emma shakes her head and crosses the room to side by him instead, shoulder brushing against his own as she sits down.    
  
“A couple of hours, I think,” she says.  “It’ll be morning soon.”  
  
Morning - a full day since he came here last, since he wrote that letter (did she read it?).  Killian nods, glancing over at her, watching her glance back at him, and he feels shy, suddenly, terrified that she knows everything that he feels and he has no idea what she thinks of him.   He nods, trying to focus on the conversation, on what happened last night.   
  
“Did Belle…” he starts to say, trailing off as Emma nods.    
  
“Yeah, she kicked him out of Storybrooke.   At least, that’s what Regina said - and that’s what I think happened.”  Emma shrugs her shoulders, takes a sip from her cup of tea (not coffee - did she read the letter?) and sighs.  “When he left, I - felt something.  Like a void, in Storybrooke.  Regina said it was because his magic presence or something was gone.”  Emma looks down at her cup, and Killian looks at her.  “It’s strange to think I can feel other people’s magic.”  
  
“You’re quite talented yourself, love,” Killian reminds her, nudging his shoulder into hers.  He can’t help but smile at the wry look she sends him back, before she mutters “I forgot that you’re such a big fan of me,” under her breath.  
  
“So how are you feeling?” she asks, turning towards him, placing her cup on the bedside table.   
  
“Marginally better,” Killian admits, though his body is currently at odds: for one, he is bone-tired and weary, and the softness of the bed calls to him like a siren; and yet, he is alert, ready and waiting to hear from Emma about the letter that he wrote - or, at the very least, to confess his role in Gold’s scheme, to clear his conscience and let her make her decision.   “Emma, I - “  
  
“I found your letter,” she says, threading he hand through his, squeezing gently.  “Thank you for letting me know.”   He can’t read the expressions on her face, cannot tell exactly what she wants from him, and so he starts to talk but she silences him again, this time with a brief kiss to  his lips which makes him close his eyes and take a deep breath.  
  
“Look - I understand feeling like you’re not enough just the way you are,” she says.  “I remember when I was younger, how I would try to be whatever my foster parents wanted just so I could stay.”  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looks away from him.  “That’s what I’m guessing you meant when you kept talking about being better for me, and being a whole man in your letter.  But you’ve done more for me than most people have, despite how broken you think you are - and that’s what matters to me, okay?”    
  
Emma squeezes his hand one more time and when she looks up at him, he can see the tears glistening in her eyes, and it’s his turn to lean forward and kiss her, to pull her into his embrace.   She breaks the kiss, tucks her forehead into his neck, winds her arms around his back and all Killian can think is how lucky he is to have her, and how grateful he is for her benevolence.   
  
And that, of course, is when he yawns.  
  
Emma laughs against his neck, her words vibrating through his body when she tells him, “Let’s get you to sleep,” and he can’t even find it in himself to make some sort of saucy comment, not with the way that she’s pulling back and standing up.     
  
She moves away from him, leaving the room then returning with a pair of folded clothes.   She’s blushing, Killian realizes, and when he takes them from her, he realizes that they are his  - the clothes that he bought to wear at night while staying at Granny’s (one time she caught him in his altogether on the way to the bathroom was one time too many).    
  
“You brought them here?” he asks, feeling as if there are things the cannot quite connect with what is going on right now.   
  
“I figured you could stay the night, since we don’t have any dark magic-wielding wizards to chase down at the moment,” she tells him, the blush still high on her cheeks, the awkwardness in her stance as she slides her hands into her back pockets, not looking at him.  “Bathroom’s all yours, if you want to change first.”  
  
Killian nods, and it’s not until he’s in there, removing his shirt, that the enormity of what just transpired hits him.   
  
Emma brought him his clothing so that he could stay with her.    
  
He changes quickly, pulling on the loose-fitting cotton pants and the long-sleeved shirt that still covers his brace, and then folds his clothing carefully, taking time to let everything sink in.  He places them on a shelf in the bathroom, out of the way so that he may retrieve them when he leaves tomorrow (his heart thunders in his chest and he realizes that he is both nervous and excited to be here, with her, after all that has transpired).   
  
Before he exits her small bathroom, he does one final thing: he removes his brace with the hook attached.  If he is to sleep here, than he will sleep as he does in his own quarter (he wonders if this is a final chance for Emma to turn him away, but shakes that thought out of his mind and blames it on exhaustion, even if it is a little true).   
  
When he returns, Emma is nowhere to be found, but he hears her movement in the other rooms of the house.  Suddenly, Killian is completely uncertain, unsure of what to do next, because while he has been invited into the beds of many women, there is a stark difference between being invited for a tumble and being invited to stay, and he -   
  
“Hey.”  Emma is back, closing the door behind her softly, and locking it for good measure.  She approaches him, examining his outfit from head to toe before her fingers reach up and trace the charms that he always wears.  “V-neck - can’t let that chest hair go unseen,” she teases, resting her palm over his heart, and he can feel it race at her touch, feel it’s speed increase as she smiles at him.   He says nothing, merely places his hand over her own with a smile.  
  
With a sigh, Emma steps back, dropping her hand and letting go of him.  “I sleep on the left side of the bed,” she tells him as she heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.  Killian can’t help but smile at the small admission, the way that she’s fitting him into her life, especially as he slides into the right side of the bed.   
  
The covers are cool to the touch and the pillow soft, and before he knows it, Emma is sliding in beside him, whispering ‘Good night’ as she turns off the light.  He moves then, pulling her towards him, and she adjusts so that they are wrapped together, her back against his chest, his arm around her waist, his face against her shoulder (he is surprised at how well they fit, at the feeling of her in his arms being so perfect,  and suddenly the exhaustion is long gone and the only thing he can think about is her).  
  
It is a distraction, to say the least, to have her in his arms after days and months (and a year) of longing - to feel her pressing against him in such a way that he cannot focus, can barely breathe, as want and desire course through his veins and all he can think about is that she wants him to stay.  
  
Emma, too, seems affected by him - her breathing does not even out like that of a person falling asleep, and she fidgets against him, pressing back into him until he finally groans, burying his face in her hair, trying to control himself.   
  
Except, she doesn’t seem to want that.   
  
The groan makes Emma turn around in his arms and she is kissing him, pressing her entire body against him (he can feel every curve through the thin cotton of her own nightclothes, can feel heat from between her thighs as she wraps her leg around him, pressing them closer together) but there is nothing urgent in their movement.  While there is desire, there is also an ease in which they come together, in how she moans into his kisses when his hand finally reaches her breast, in how her hand teases at the drawstring of his pants before reaching below and taking him in hand.   When he finally does the same, he finds her wet and needy, her fingers clutching at his hair and her whimpers driving him onward.   
  
They remove each other’s clothes quietly in the dark, and soon, without much preamble (though she does stop him for a moment, uttering something about making good life choices and asking him shyly if she can slide a sheath onto his hardness, which he agrees too), he is sliding into her and she is arching beneath him, moaning and sighing and shifting and all that he can think is that she asked him to stay, she wants him to stay (what does it matter about his hand when they are both broken and lost, when they can find safe harbor with each other?)  
  
Hearing her fall apart is perhaps the most amazing sound in all the realms (he looks forward to watching her, counting every freckle and tasting every inch of her skin, for he knows there will be a next time in the way that she clutches him to her afterwards, brushing his hair back from his face and pressing kisses against his lips).  
  
“I thought I was going to lose you,” she says, and he reminds her, “I told you I’m a survivor, love,” which earns him a laugh in response.   
  
He leaves the bed to clean up, and soon she follows him into the bathroom, fingers creeping along his hip, chin resting against his shoulder as she looks at him in the mirror above his sink.   
  
“Stay,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.    
  
“That’s what I was planning on doing,” he points out with a smile, but Emma shakes her head.   
  
“I mean - stay with me.  Henry’s always at Regina’s because that’s where his Xbox lives and I…” she trails off, and he turns in her arms, bringing his hand up to her face (he remembers her doing the same earlier, palm hot against his clammy skin).   He loves her, this stubborn beautiful Savior of Storybrooke, who takes him for all that he is and all that he can be.   
  
“I’ll stay,” he tells her, “that is, as long as Granny’s fine with losing out on her weekly allotment of gold…”  
  
Emma laughs.  “I’m sure we can convince her to let you go…” she says, before she leans forward to kiss him, to draw him back into her bed, and he follows, realizing he would pay any sum of money to assuage Granny if it meant more nights (and mornings) like this, wrapped up in Emma, sleeping easy for the first time in decades. 


End file.
